What Are You Thinking About?
by miiamya
Summary: After the final battle, Harry arrives at some realizations after Neville poses a surprisingly deep question.


Disclaimer: This world belongs to J.K. Rowling.

"What are you doing?" Harry raised his head just enough to see a round face, full of concern. He lowered his head again, allowing his dark fringe to cover deep green eyes.

"Thinking," he answered softly, hoping his companion wouldn't pressure him to elaborate. His callused fingers began to trace the smooth stone on which he sat, his dirty fingernails stumbling over cracks and bumps. His eyes stared intently at his scuffed trainers, not really seeing them, just praying that he would be left alone.

"What are you thinking about?" Harry cringed as the inevitable inquiry rushed over him, knocking the air out of his already deprived lungs.

"Everything," he answered immediately, before regretting it, "Nothing; I don't know." He heard the rustle of fabric against stone as his companion clumsily sat down next to him.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked again, his voice trembling, as though he was frightened of the answer. Harry glanced at him, watching bloodshot eyes stare back at him, neither of them ready to hear the answer to the question.

"I guess I'm just mulling over things, Neville," Harry admitted, "I haven't really had a chance to do that. Well, not by myself anyway."

"Oh, sorry, do you want to be left alone?" Neville asked quickly, stumbling over his words and quickly getting up.

"No, I wasn't hinting that you should go," Harry said hurriedly, his hand quickly grabbing the back of Neville's robes, but he tugged harder than he had meant and Neville came toppling over him. Both of them collapsed on the cold stone floor, entangled in dirty robes, legs kicking and arms flaying madly until they finally separated, tumbling onto the floor, limbs sprawled and chests heaving as streams of laughter emitted from their open mouths.

When they had finally calmed down enough to sit up, Harry was pleased to see that the look of apprehension no longer masked Neville's face. Rather, it was replaced by pleasure and amusement – it was the sort of lighthearted expression that a hero of war should have after a well-deserved win. Unfortunately, Harry knew it was rarely that simple.

"Sorry about that," Harry managed to choke out, his stomach clenched from the weight of the laughter. He, once again, leaned against the stone wall, the lighthearted pleasure quickly leaving him as he remembered where he was and what had just occurred.

"It's sort of difficult to take in, isn't it?" Neville mused softly, as though he knew why Harry had suddenly grown so silent. When Harry didn't respond, he continued. "I mean, I suppose it is more real for you since you've been living in it for the past few months, but it different for me. I've been holed up in this place, causing general mayhem and rebellion, but I didn't really understand how big it really was until tonight. I mean, of course I knew. But – at the same time – I didn't. You know what I mean?"

If it had been any other time, it would have been amusing to see Neville stumbling over his words like they were in first year again and Neville had just been called on by a professor to answer a question to which he did not know the answer. But this wasn't first year. And the answer Neville was fishing for was much more important than the definition of switching spells.

"Yeah, I know what you mean," Harry softly intoned, watching a bead of sweat slowly trickle down Neville's cheek. "It's sort of, like, you get so caught up in your own role that you sometimes forget the big picture."

"Of course," Neville said hastily, quickly glancing at Harry, "Your role was much more important than mine."

Harry sighed slightly, trying to think of the best way to rebuke Neville without worsening the situation. "Don't underestimate yourself, Neville," he finally said, "you played just as big a roll as I did. I owe you a lot." His voice choked as he emitted the last sentence, his fingers moving from the smooth stones to fiddle with his frayed, bloodied t-shirt, heavy with the memories of war.

"Why don't you change your clothes?" Neville asked, his cheeks slightly pink from the stuttered compliment he had received.

"I don't have anything to change into."

Oh, right," Neville chuckled, "I suppose you didn't keep the best hygiene the last few months."

Harry smirked. "It's one of the downfalls of being in hiding from Lord Voldemort – resources are rather limited." They both laughed.

"You could always clean it, I suppose."

"How do you suggest I do that?" asked Harry, who was rather reluctant to strip down in a dirty loo and scrub his mangled clothes in a row of chipped sinks while peering nervously over his shoulder and praying that no one walked in to find the hero of the wizarding world in such a humiliating position.

"You do have a wand, don't you?"

Harry immediately caught on to Neville's thought process and pulled out his newly repaired, phoenix feather wand, pointed it at his shirt, and muttered 'scourgify'. He watched bemusedly as the clumps of dirt and streaks of blood were siphoned off. With them, a weight seemed to have been lifted, and – amazed by how light he felt – Harry rose to his feet, holding out his callused hand to Neville, who accepted it without question, and allowed his companion to pull him slowly into a standing position.

"Let's walk around a bit," Harry replied in response to Neville's curious expression. Neville gave a slight nod, which Harry took to mean that he should lead the way. They walked in silence down the second floor corridor and up a narrow staircase with a trick step that Neville barely missed. Harry remembered in wistful amusement how he used to good humouredly tease Neville about how he always forgot to skip the trick steps that were infamous for causing general clumsiness and embarrassment in unsuspecting Hogwarts students. But, now, he didn't say anything as he waited for Neville to catch his balance before he resumed climbing the twisting staircase.

They continued to walk in comfortable silence, allowing their exhausted feet to lead them. Occasionally, they would run into a battle-wearied student who would step back slightly, catching Harry's eye before quickly breaking the connection, as though his gaze was too powerful. Most of them he recognized, though only vaguely as they were all covered in blood and muck. But more than the outward appearances, Harry simply did not recognize them as his peers anymore.

He had been gone for too long and had seen things he could never begin to explain. He felt detached – from his friends, from Hogwarts, and from the Wizarding World. As this thought entered his mind, unwelcome tears burst forth, trying to breach the frail wall he had set up since the end of the battle. He willed them not to fall because he knew that if he began, every tear he had held back for the past seven years would break forth and flood the world he had just saved.

He could feel Neville's eyes chancing glances at him, knew that Neville had watched that solitary tear be inhaled back into the depths of Harry dark soul. He knew that Neville – unlike so many others – would not mention it; not just from embarrassment, but from a keen sense that Harry would not want to discuss it.

Instead of looking at his companion, Harry focused on the gentle thud his sore feet made each time they hit the stone floor. Thud. Thud. He felt so tired, but – he knew – that if he stopped walking, he would collapse. Thud. Thud. Maybe he would even sink into the floor so he could avoid the stares that seemed the follow him everywhere. Thud. Thud. Maybe he could just take a couple years off until all the excitement ended. Thud. Thud. Maybe, when he came back, no one would remember him and he could just start over. Thud. Thud. Maybe, eventually, even he would forget everything and it would be like none of it had ever happened. Thud.

THUD! CRASH!

"HARRY!"

Without realizing it, Harry had stumbled into the Owlery, missing the two steps leading to the open, circular room. Neville's surprisingly firm grip kept him from falling, and, once he had found his footing, he leaned against a wall, catching his breath. "Ironically," Harry said with a slight smirk, "that did not involve a trick step." Neville gave a quick chuckle, but it seemed strained as he stared into Harry's emerald eyes, as though searching for something.

"What are you thinking about?"

It took all his will power to not roll his eyes. Just when he thought he was in the clear, Neville proved that he was much wilier than Harry ever gave him credit for. "Oh, that, again," Harry sighed, striding to the other side of the circular room. On a low perch sat a snowy owl, eyes shut, smooth chest slowly rising and sinking and rising again.

There was something unidentifiable stuck in Harry's throat as, for the second time, he urged himself not cry. But the image of Hedwig lying on the floor of her cage was almost too much. To avoid crying, he reached out to stroke the elegant bird only to have it fly through a shaft the moment his fingers made contact with her soft feathers.

"Yes, that again," Neville intoned softly. Harry flinched slightly, who had not realized that Neville had closed the distance between them and was now hovering by Harry's left ear. He automatically took a step forward, and Neville, obviously realizing how uncomfortable he had made the situation, took several steps back.

Several minutes passed in heavy silence as Neville shuffled nervously from foot to foot, the gravel beneath him crunch unpleasantly. Harry began to clench his jaw, the sound of the gravel rolling across the soles of Neville's shoes irking him. He allowed his mind to clear, conquered by the gravel, which overwhelmed his brain, torturing him until he could take it no more. "Would you give it a bloody rest?" he snapped, whirling around to snarl at the catalyst.

The moment he emitted the words, he regretted them. Neville's eyes widened with shock and pain. He sighed, his ashen face shifted downwards and his guilt stricken eyes staring at a place just over Neville's left shoulder. "Listen –" he started but was immediately interrupted.

"No, you listen," Neville retorted fiercely and it was Harry's turn to look shocked. Neville never lost his temper. Not once in all the years he had been teased by his fellow dorm mates and tormented by Malfoy and his fellow Slytherins. "I know you have had to deal with a lot this last year. I know that it has been difficult and trying and that it has had an enormous impact on you. I know that you have lost a lot of people and I know that you are emotional scarred. I, also, know you have something on your mind, but I don't know why you won't let me share the burden. I don't know why you won't let me in." His voice cracked and Harry saw that the rims of his eyes were scarlet.

He did not answer right away. Instead, he considered what his answer would be to the over analyzed question, "What are you thinking?" His feelings of disconnection and emptiness surfaced, and, for the third time, he was forced to inhale tears. Only, there were too many of them to retain, and, at last, the bridge broke. Tears of anguish and despair, triumph and disillusionment, came flooding down his sunken cheeks. He cried for the parents he had never known, for the godfather who had been stolen from him, for Remus, who would never know his son, and for the countless others who had sacrificed themselves for him. And he cried with guilt that he was not more content, that he was not reveling in his victory, that he was not spending this time wit those who had risked their lives for him.

A warm hand clasped his shoulder and harry glanced at Neville, who stared back at him with comfort etched into every scar on his aged face, and Harry felt the warmth rush through his body, like chocolate but more real. It was a warmth that kept him from collapsing onto the owlery floor. It was a warmth that made him remember why he loved Hogwarts and why he clung to the remnants of the Wizarding World. It was love, like Dumbledore had always told him. It was love that was the reason why he could never abandon this place and the people he associated with it. It was love that allowed the tears to flow and the warmth to fill him to his very core.

Finally, the tears began to ebb and he slowly raised his head, not even bothering to wipe away the moistness. He stared into Neville's eyes and said, without hesitation, "I was thinking that maybe you would like to play a game of gobstones."

Neville groaned, though there was an enormous grin plastered on his face. You know I hate that game." But even as he said it, he was leading Harry out of the owlery and up to Gryffindor tower where their friends were waiting.

A/N: This is just a short one shot; I'm not planning on turning it into a story. For those of you who followed "Before the Tragedy" know that I haven't given up on my plan to rewrite it, it just might take a while.

Happy Reading!

Lots of Love, Miia Mya


End file.
